I shoot my shot and I miss But I keep movin along Since that's all there is My normalcy transpires, Fallacies and fires Never thought to inquire Where, in the world, my soul is. Its about time I reconcile The burning flesh that I devour Cannibalism, self sexualization, Disgust for my own admiration God I can't take it anymore! Please come knocking at my door. God run through my aches and pains. My feet are sore, my hair is ripped apart, I cant even begin to start Where love is. Where love is. Sense my soul, Someone, please hold, I tell you one last thing I bought her a ring And yet she rejected My soul was ejected Crushed and eclectic I was rejected I was rejected. Please let me live, Please let me live.
The rising automata, the perverse instability of identity, is autonomy just a sect of paranoia? Paranoia, the ultimate schizoanalysis, discredited as insanity, distanced from the noumena, present in all humans, holds onto a separation of the child with the adult, a potent disconnect between distance and closeness. An imposition on the real, paranoia is an adamant defender of truth, existing as a conspiracy theorist, segmented into a shadow, and disparate from the whole. Burning itself onto the psyche of rationality, and overtaking its identity, paranoia, the reflection of truth, rests on indiscriminate harm, and hatred of joy, a discernment of undisclosed identity, and a prominent voice in ideology. Autonomy rests its shoulders on the paranoia of control, the dominance of the object to the subject, the harm of losing the ability to venture, paranoia is a stark reminder of the instability of the child, but moreso the instability of the adult. Along the timeline of life, the grasp of the